


Don't Wanna Set the World on Fire

by jesuisfarouche



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood, Character Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, heavily fallout-inspired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:03:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisfarouche/pseuds/jesuisfarouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-six years he’s been giving death a strong middle finger.</p><p>Grantaire didn't ask to get tangled up in an extremist group set on wiping out the sorry excuse for a government with fire and bombs and bullets. But when you're on your own as a gun-for-hire in a world post-apocalypse, sometimes these things just sort of happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The main thing about his job, really, is not to get killed.

Just, don’t do it. It’s fairly simple. You can go about it any way you like, but really the best way to do it is to not be an asshole, carry enough ammo for sticky situations, and use your goddamn brain.

When it all comes down to it though, sometimes you need to have the smarts to decide whether to run or whether to stand your ground.

Running’s just as like to put a few bullets in your gut in certain situations, so when he sees two fairly heavily-armed men who look like total assholes about a half mile off he gently shoves his ward behind a pile of rocks and debris.

“Stay here,” he tells the doctor. “If they shoot me, run.”

The doctor silently complies, clutching his pack close to him as he crouches down in the dirt.

As a gun for hire who’s traveled back and forth these parts of the wastes he’s seen this kind of shit before. Two or three guys will stop you, take your stuff, make you beg ‘em not to kill you and in the end they’ll either leave you there with a chunk of metal in your skull or keep you around for a while in hopes that slavers will be traveling by. Honestly, it’s better if they just shoot you.

He walks toward them, a slight decline in the terrain giving him hope they hadn’t seen the doctor, and he pulls his pistol from its holster on his hip. They’ve spotted him by now, sub-machines pointed in his direction, and he raises the pistol into the air keeping his finger visibly off the trigger. His other hand joins it above his head.

“Long ways off the road,” one of them calls to him when he gets close enough.

He smiles in spite of this. “Figured it’d be safer,” he replies, and they’re close enough now where running would be suicide.

He stops walking and one gets behind him and lands a kick at the back of his knee that sends him straight into the dirt. The pistol drops in front of him, and the other guy kicks it aside. “Traveling alone?” he asks. The guy behind him pulls his backpack off of him and he can hear the asshole scavenging around, looking for anything valuable.

“Yeah.” His hands make their way into the air again, just to be safe. Though, on his knees in the middle of nowhere, disarmed and outnumbered, one would think it wasn’t likely he’d try anything funny.

One would think.

“How old’re you, son?”

“Twenty,” he lies. The age lines beginning to appear on his face and the scruff along his jawline would have betrayed his twenty-six years to any man paying enough attention.

“Still got all your teeth?”

Shit. _Shit_. Are these assholes raiders or slavers? It’s hard to tell sometimes.

Time to make them angry, make them careless. He just needs them to make one slip and he’s golden. “You know what, man, fuck you.”

The next comes from the guy behind him. “The fuck you say, you little shit?”

“Fuck you cunts,” he says, and spits in the dirt. “Fucking assholes think you can just fucking grab a guy minding his own goddamn business—“

He sees the blow coming but it doesn’t take away the sting. It’s just what he needs, though. A fist connects with the side of his face, and as he goes down he grabs the guy’s wrist and pulls him down with him. He’s quick, quicker than they expect, and several shots ring out. But he’s grabbed the man’s gun and pointed it away from himself, and the bullets go straight through the man’s skull and embed into the dirt. Blood and gray matter splatter onto his face and his clothes.

Like I said though, he’s quick. Before the other guy can take a shot he’s grabbed the knife from his boot and opens up his chest, and then his throat. There’s more blood then as the blade tears through flesh and muscle, and a few more shots ring out in vain as the dying man attempts one last stand, then bleeds out in the dirt.

So there he stands, like some kind of goddamn hero covered in strangers’ blood. But those strangers were assholes, and he has a job to do, so he calls out for the doctor and the doctor comes running.

The doctor fusses over him slightly as he digs through the raiders’ pockets and packs. They’re both packing 10mm, which is no help and too heavy to carry just for the hell of it. He digs further.

Jackpot. Chems, stims, a full flask and a pack of cigarettes. He jams these things into his own pack under the disapproving look from the doctor, save the cigarettes. He puts one between his lips and digs around his pockets for a lighter.

“You all right, doc?” he asks through the corner of his mouth.

The other man raises an eyebrow. “I’m fine, Grantaire. I assume that’s not your blood or brain matter?”

Grantaire lights the cigarette and takes a deep puff. “Nah. These assholes didn’t have anything on me.”

“Good to know I’m getting my money’s worth then, hmm?”

He likes the doctor. Joly. He likes Joly.

“Gunfire’ll draw out the local wildlife,” he says. “Best we keep moving.”

He leaves the corpses in the dirt for scavs or man-eaters or whatever else roams around the wastes searching for bodies or supplies.

Like I mentioned before, he’s got a job to do, and that job is to get Joly another ten miles across the wastes alive, because if he doesn’t get him back to his friends he doesn’t get paid the second half of his fee, and if he doesn’t get paid he doesn’t eat, and if he doesn’t eat he dies. It’s how people work.

So they walk onward toward Joly’s mysterious group of friends, whom they should reach in another few hours. “You’d like them,” he had said a few miles back. “At the very least you can get rest for a few days and re-supply.”

Grantaire wasn’t looking for friends. People were generally assholes who would sooner kill you than do you any favors. But he liked this doctor, and perhaps he was tired, and maybe some rest would do him good.

“We’ll see.”


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire has seen the darkness.

He has seen it, touched it, and it bled him as he killed it, ebony claws sharp as razor blades buried in his shoulder and collarbone, the beast finally close enough to get a good shot at it. The damage to his bones and the tears in his skin and the loss of his blood were a small price to pay for his life.

He’s seen it and he knows it, and he sees it still when he sleeps. They’ve been wiped out, the government tells them. There’s no reason to fear them anymore. Safety at last. A sorry excuse for a governing body is the Collective, lying to its people, keeping them docile by feeding them lies and bullshit.

His back against a rock, fire burned down to weak embers that send small, neat curls of smoke to dissipate in the open air, Grantaire can’t help but think of that darkness now. Its eyes when it spotted him; its breath on his face.

The doctor, Joly, his client and his charge, is sound asleep and has been for nearly an hour. Grantaire doesn’t sleep well, not out here in the wastes. Though they’re safely away from being out in the open and tucked into a little alcove of rock sheltered by what remains of trees (dead skeletons without leaves, without green and life), he finds it difficult to rest when any moment there could be raiders or man-eaters or a goddamn Collective patrol on top of them.

He pokes at dimming embers with a stick, sending tiny sparks up with the smoke that flare and disappear. The coals burn low now. A night fire’s safe in the low lands, he had explained to the doctor; it’s when you get into the hills you have to be more careful. The light attracts the beasts and the raiders. If you ain’t careful you’ll wake up with your throat torn out.

The flask Grantaire looted from those assholes that stopped him earlier in the day earlier sits at his side, and he grips it gently and raises it to his lips. He can’t identify the liquid inside of it, which is odd as he was sure he had tasted every sorry excuse for liquor in the Collective lands, but it’s getting him buzzed and he hasn’t died yet.

Twenty-six years he’s been giving death a strong middle finger.

Times like this he sees those eyes even when he’s awake. He places a hand up to his shoulder, snakes his fingertips underneath the collar of his shirt and feels the uneven skin where his shoulder meets his neck. Here it stretches, here it’s smooth and here it’s rough, scars from the claws that nearly tore him to shreds. He can almost feel the blood slip beneath his fingers as he tries to hold the talons back, razor-sharp and opening jagged cuts in his skin as he grasps at them.

He takes another pull from the flask. The liquor goes down harsh and burns his throat, and he’s almost hesitant to taste it on his lips. Almost.

 

* * *

 

Let’s go back a week prior:

He’s been out of a job for nearly a month, the coins and few bills in his pocket the only cash he has to his name, and it’s not enough to last him very long. His belongings fit in one pack; he doesn’t own much. He currently sleeps on the street, but The Lights is a large enough settlement that he blends in enough for it not to be troublesome.

Though faced with the possibility of destitution, Grantaire sits on a bar stool that won’t spin, and he’s considering switching to the seat next to him when the bartender sets a small glass of whiskey in front of him. He prefers it neat, which is convenient as ice costs extra and he doesn’t exactly have any extra to spare.

It’s the middle of summer, and it’s hot. The air in the bar is stifling; though there’s no glass in the window frames, no breeze flows through the dim bar. The number of layers of clothing Grantaire wears is doing him no favors either, but at least they keep the dust out. Long pants, shirt, vest with lots of pockets (he does like having lots of pockets), fingerless leather gloves, scarf wide enough to cover half his face if needed…again, at least it keeps the dust out.

He places a couple coins on the bar and takes a long sip of the whiskey. It’s not great (it’s actually pretty horrid as far as whiskey goes) but it’s 150 proof and that’s good enough for Grantaire.

The door to the bar creaks open and the bartender shoots a nod to the new arrival. He sits himself down next to Grantaire, which he considers odd as the bar is mostly empty. There’s a dense thud as the man sets a large duffel bag onto the floor.

Grantaire watches him from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t turn his head, or greet the newcomer, or do anything at all really except sip from his glass. But it’s apparent after a few moments of silence that the man is staring at him.

“Grantaire, yeah?”

Not a whole lot of people have spoken his name as of late. The sound of it on another’s tongue startles him, and he turns his head slowly to face this guy. “Who’s asking?”

The man holds his hand out. “I’m called Joly.” Grantaire shakes his hand with a questioning look on his face. “I’m not from around here, but I got your name and likely location from a trusted source. I’m a medic—well, more of a doctor, really, but at present the term “medic” more readily applies—with a group based inconveniently far from here. I’m looking to hire a bodyguard to escort me back home.”

This doctor, this Joly, talks quite a bit, Grantaire thinks, but the word “hire” rings in his ears. “How far?” he asks.

There’s a smile on Joly’s lips that Grantaire can’t quite decipher. It’s a mix of the joy of knowing a secret, a cool venomous threat, a shit-eating grin. It’s many things but it is not easily read. “Far.”

Grantaire opens his mouth to speak, but Joly beats him to it. “I promise you, you’ll be compensated generously for your service.”

That’s how it begins. They talk, they drink, they iron out the details: Joly is to be escorted and delivered relatively unharmed to his group’s home (base? settlement? territory? Joly isn’t quite concrete on what kind of group this is exactly), Grantaire given half the fee immediately and half upon their arrival. Joly will provide money upfront for the necessary supplies.

It’s a bit of a pain in the ass to walk across the wastes with a man he’s only known for less than a day, but there are worse jobs and the pay is good and Joly isn’t a terrible human being and it’s the middle of summer so they won’t freeze to death out in the flats and what the hell, before he knows it Grantaire and Joly are shaking hands, and takings shots of something that burns like vodka but probably isn’t vodka, and Grantaire is once again employed.

 

* * *

 

When Joly wakes it is nearly sunrise. Grantaire hasn’t slept, but whatever was in the flask has given him a rush of energy. Amphetamines? Possibly. Quite likely considering the flask’s previous owners. It’s just as well; Grantaire’s no stranger to amps.

Joly regards him with slight suspicion--or rather light curiosity--as they pack their meager camp and Grantaire knows it. The doc’s sharp; he doesn’t miss the shaking, the blown pupils, the slight tic—tic—tic in Grantaire’s face.

“You’re on chems,” he says dryly as they move out of the alcove of rock and into the open waste. It’s neither an accusation nor a question, more of a half-amused observation.

“Probably,” Grantaire replies. “I mean, not on purpose.” He looks back at Joly who walks a few paces behind him. The doc lifts an eyebrow. “What?”

There’s a hint of a smile played out across his features. “How am I supposed to feel safe out here when you’re busy experiencing euphoria?”

“It’s a lousy one, if that makes you feel any better,” Grantaire replies, turning back to face the terrain ahead of him. He feels a crawling in his scalp that may or may not be real, and scratches vigorously. “Shit’s definitely not legit. Anyway it’s a straight shot to the hills, just another day or so. No more need to worry about your guide getting accidentally hopped up on amps. You’ll be home soon enough.”

Behind him, Joly inhales deeply and closes his eyes for a moment. Home. Not a place, rather the people he’s been away from for months. He had been given a task and had completed it without complaint, but damned if he doesn’t feel an ache in his chest at missing his brothers.

Joly silently prays they are all still alive.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire is true to his word and the low mountains greet them on the horizon the next morning. Each in one piece just as Grantaire had promised, the two men walk the large expanse of wasteland towards the hill. They’re stopped only by a sudden distant pop and something dense digging into the dirt at their feet.

“Are we being shot at?” Grantaire wonders absently.

“Oh, shit, that’s right!” Joly drops to the ground and begins to dig through his pack with one hand while tossing his other arm in the air, fingers splayed out in a shaky STOP.

“Don’t shoot! For the love of God, don’t shoot!”

He finds what he’s been digging for – a square foot of dirty red cloth – and he raises it into the air and waves it in front of him.

Movement in the distant hills catches Grantaire’s eye. A figure rises to a standing position, grasping the barrel of a large rifle in one hand and moving a large pair of dark goggles up to his forehead with the other.

“ _C'est que tu, Joly_?” the figure calls down the hill, and the doctor’s face changes instantly from frightened panic to elation.

“ _Oui, c’est moi_!” he calls back, his features lit up like the sun and a smile so wide plastered to his face he looked as though he could die of happiness. The man on the hill begins to make his descent towards them.

Grantaire hasn’t heard French spoken since he was a child. “Friend of yours, I take it?”

The doctor, who has been watching the man make his way towards them, turns his face to Grantaire. His eyes are misted over, but the smile is not gone from his face. “We’re here, Grantaire. I’m home.”

 

* * *

 

“What is it exactly you people do?”

The power plant hasn’t run in decades, not for mass generation of power anyway, but there is electricity and running water and that’s good enough for Grantaire.

Feuilly sets a box of crackers down onto the table and sinks into a torn-up armchair. Immediately he props his feet up onto the table. He runs a hand through bright red locks of hair, his goggles still resting comfortably on his forehead, and he eyes Grantaire with mixed suspicion and amusement. “What do you mean?”

“A handful of guys set up comfortably in an abandoned power plant far enough away from any major settlement to be private but close enough for some kind of business to occur, monitoring the perimeter enough to know when to send out a sniper when people get too close, a god damn doctor paying me crazy amounts of cash to escort him here…it’s a little suspicious, man, you gotta admit.”

Feuilly has opened the box of crackers by the time Grantaire stops speaking and shoves one in his mouth. “You sure you wanna know?” he asks, his mouth full of cracker. “I mean, wouldn’t it just be simpler to just accept our hospitality for a day or two and be on your way?”

Grantaire pulls a pack of cigarettes from one of the many pockets on his vest, and pats around the rest of them for a lighter. “Probably,” he says, unzipping a pocket once he finds what he’s been feeling around for. He lights the cigarette and takes a long drag. “But I’m curious.”

“What’s that old saying?” Joly enters through the open doorway, patting his freshly-washed face with a gray towel. “Curiosity killed the cat?”

“Cats all died out before you were even born,” Feuilly points out, munching on another cracker.

Joly tosses the towel over his shoulder. “True.”

Grantaire can tell the subject is closed, but he presses on anyways, “When I met you, Joly, you referred to yourself as a medic. Nobody calls themselves a medic unless they’re seeing regular combat. You people are armed to the teeth, you’ve got food and water and fucking _electricity_ , man. This far out into the wastes? Come on.”

Feuilly is no longer smiling, and Joly is seemingly frozen where he stands, staring at Grantaire with an unreadable expression. Grantaire takes another drag off his cigarette, leaving it dangling between his lips. “So what is it? Drugs? Slaves?”

“We’re a violent extremist group intent on the destruction of the Collective.”

All three heads turn to the door and the man standing there. Thin, of average height, bond-haired and blue-eyed, he isn’t anything extraordinary. But the way he stands in the doorway, commanding the room with his voice and his presence, the way he stares at Grantaire…those eyes feel as though they pierce right through him, can see his darkness and everything he secretly fears.

_You're gonna bleed for this man._

Ash from his cigarette drops onto Grantaire’s combat vest. Time seems to stall, and there is nothing in the entire world but he and this man—no wastes, no Collective, no Feuilly or Joly or anyone else, nobody in the whole world. Just they two, alone and together, and the man’s gaze hurts Grantaire but he can’t look away. He never wants to look away for as long as he lives.

_You're gonna die for this man.  
_

Fuck. _ _  
__


	3. Chapter 3

Grantaire says he’ll stay for two days, just to rest and resupply before he hits the wastes again and heads back to The Lights.

Two days turns to three, then five, then eight and twelve and all of a sudden three weeks have passed by and Grantaire realizes one morning as he’s sewing a patch into his only pair of jeans (black denim, faded and worn and yet still tight to his legs) that he’s gotten comfortable. It’s a strange feeling, being comfortable. Almost like having a home. Almost.

He pricks his finger on the sharp point of the needle, swears, and watches a tiny bead of crimson slowly form on his fingertip.

He likes the rest of them – Bahorel and Combeferre and Bossuet, and Courfeyrac (who he only sees a few times as he’s on some super-secret special assignment from Enjolras and doesn’t live at the power plant with the others.) There is plenty of food, plenty of ammunition, plenty of clean water and good company.

And Enjolras. Terrifying, beautiful, perfect fucking Enjolras, with his hair and his jawline and that place where his shoulder meets his neck that fucking begs to be bitten down onto. That dusting of fine light stubble on his face every couple of days. His fingers as they comb absently through the spun silk that curls atop his head. His hips. His ass.

Grantaire steals these looks at him every so often when he knows the other man isn’t looking. Well, when he thinks he isn’t looking, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Courfeyrac comes and goes. Everyone’s pretty tight-lipped about what exactly he does with his time, and it takes another two weeks before Feuilly finally spills, “He’s on the inside.”

“…Of the Collective?”

Feuilly grins and nods. He’s eating a stale granola bar, the wrapper pulled down halfway. “Has been for nearly two years. It was all kind of an accident, really; see, he killed this guy, right, this Collective asshole, okay, takes his clothes and leaves him right out in the middle of the wastes. And on his way back here he meets up with a patrol and just kind of, like, joins up with them. Apparently he’s secured a pretty good position with them, but it’s all hush-hush and between Enjolras and him. Combeferre knows more than I do but I’m pretty sure even he doesn’t have all the details.”

Grantaire blinks several times. “That’s metal as shit, Feuilly.”

“Yeah, he’s a badass. It’s gonna get him killed someday though, mark my words, man.”

 

* * *

 

Forty-three days after Joly and Grantaire arrived at the power plant, Courfeyrac bursts through the double doors of the main lobby, shouting for Enjolras. He finds Feuilly and Grantaire first, a game of cards strewn about a coffee table. An empty beer bottle clatters to the floor as Grantaire stands, startled.

“Where is Enjolras?” Courfeyrac demands, out of breath, his hair wild.

Grantaire is shaken. “What the fuck, man?”

“Feuilly, where is Enjolras?” Courfeyrac repeats, ignoring Grantaire entirely.

“He’s asleep, man; it’s nearly two in the morning. What the hell’s going on?”

“I found him.”

Feuilly visibly freezes. He stares at Courfeyrac for several moments, searching both his eyes for any hint that the man may be joking, or lying, or somehow untruthful. “Alive?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Grantaire, go wake up Enjolras,” Feuilly tells him. His eyes haven’t left Courfeyrac’s. “Tell him it’s urgent. Tell him it’s about Jehan.”

“Who’s Jehan?”

“ _Now_ , Grantaire.”

Enjolras’ room is on the top-most floor of the plant, up several flights of rickety iron stairs and over a bridge of grated scaffolding that crosses over three stories of nothing with the remains of old generators strewn about the floor below. It’s not exactly convenient to get to, and Grantaire has a feeling Enjolras lives up here on purpose, to get away from the noise, and the pressure, and – he wouldn’t put it past him – to make an escape easier should they fall under attack.

Enjolras is not sleeping, as Feuilly guessed. Rather he is cleaning his pistol, the parts of the .44 magnum revolver neatly placed on a cloth atop the table he sits at. A single lamp lights the area, casting shadows across the former emergency control room now become snug sleeping quarters. Several beat-up lockers sans doors line a wall as shelving and storage space, the small table in one corner and a twin bed in the other. Grantaire takes it in for a moment; Enjolras has not lifted his head and continues his work.

“Yeah, Grantaire?”

He wants to ask how he knew it was him, but he already knows the man to be observant enough to recognize the different footfall patterns of his friends. Obviously. “Courfeyrac’s here,” Grantaire says from the doorway, and Enjolras now lifts his head. “He wants you to come down. Told me to tell you it’s about Jehan.”

Quicker than Grantaire thought possible from a human being, Enjolras is up and across the small room and has already pushed past Grantaire and is making his way across the scaffolding. “What else did he say?” Enjolras asks, not turning back, speeding down the first flight of stairs with a surprising grace that Grantaire doesn’t himself possess. “Keep up, Grantaire.”

“He didn’t say anything else.” Grantaire trips over the second-to-last stair and nearly falls on his face. “Who’s Jehan?”

“A friend. A very dear friend. One of us."

“And you—“ Enjolras suddenly turns a sharp corner, and Grantaire, stumbling slightly, grabs the wall to swing around behind him. “—lost him? Somehow?”

“We assumed him dead.”

“But he’s not dead.”

“Apparently not.”

“And that’s a good thing, right?”

Enjolras stops dead in his tracks. He turns to face Grantaire, all shadow and height. There’s a look in his eyes Grantaire has never seen before, terrified and pained.

“Not for Jehan.”

 

* * *

 

They’ve all gathered by the time the two men reach the lobby. Grantaire can tell Courfeyrac has remained quiet about what he’s come back for, as every man in the room is so tense they could snap at any moment like a rubber band stretched too thin.

The silence is heavy, and Enjolras shatters it like a glass. “Explain to me how you’re certain,” he says to Courfeyrac.

“His file was put in my hands this morning. They transferred him here, to West, to be detained indefinitely.” He pauses. It’s barely perceptible, but Grantaire catches it. “He’s to be handed over to my department tomorrow.”

Any other man would not have marked the slight drain of color in Enjolras’ face, or the way his eyes widened ever so slightly, or the tightening of his jaw. Grantaire was not any other man. He’d been studying that man’s face for weeks, he knew it like he knew his own, and maybe he was good at reading people or maybe he was just good at reading Enjolras, but he saw fear in the man’s face.

Something is fucked up here and Grantaire is absolutely itching to find out what it is.

“Then we shouldn’t waste any more time.” The color is back in Enjolras’ face. “I’m sorry to ask this of you, Courfeyrac, I really am, but if we want to get him back there’s a very good chance you’re going to blow your cover—“

“I don’t care. Blow it to hell.”

 

* * *

 

“This is fucked.”

How he ended up here in the middle of the wastes wearing a Collective recruit uniform just uncomfortably too large trudging alongside Courfeyrac is all a bit of a blur, to be honest. There was a need for a volunteer to go with Courfeyrac, and Enjolras couldn’t do it because the bastards know his face, and Combeferre couldn’t do it because he and Joly would need to stay for when they brought Jehan back in case he needed medical attention, and Bossuet and Bahorel were hesitant and Feuilly flat out refused and Grantaire was the best shot of any of them by miles and so here he is, semi-automatic in his belt, knife in his boot, dust and dirt blowing into his face and nose and eyes and

“This is so incredibly fucked.”

“I know.”

Courfeyrac is still a bit of a mystery to Grantaire. He doesn’t quite know him well enough yet to do the whole idle-chat thing, and while there are about fifteen questions burning a hole in Grantaire he figures anything the other man wants to tell him, he will, and whatever he doesn’t, he won’t.

“There’s something you should probably know about me.”

Ah, here it is.

“Spill it.” Grantaire hikes his pants up over his hips, adjusts his belt, and pats himself down in search for his pack of cigarettes.

“I am…very good at my job.”

An eyebrow rises without Grantaire’s consent. “Okay.”

“It sucks, it really fucking sucks, and I hate it but it is what it is. You’re going to see me do my job under the guise of a trainee, and you’re going to have to do things you won’t want to do.”

Grantaire finds the pack of cigarettes and holds one between his lips as he pats around for his lighter. “I’ve done a lot of shit I didn’t want to do, Courfeyrac. I’m sure it’s fine.” He fishes the lighter out of a pocket and sparks it.

Courfeyrac stops walking. "The other day I drove wooden spikes under a man’s fingernails with a hammer then pulled out three of his teeth because he wasn’t talking.”

The lit cigarette drops from Grantaire’s lips into the dust at his feet. There’s a buzzing in his ears, it seems, and he can’t walk, or talk, or do anything really but just stare at the man.

Minutes pass, it seems, though it is only seconds. “Come again?”

“I torture people for the Collective, Grantaire. And I am very, _very_ good at my job.”

This is so absolutely, incredibly fucked.


	4. Chapter 4

They arrive at West station right before dawn. “It used to be an office building,” Courfeyrac explains. Three stories of crumbling concrete peppered with bullet holes stand several hundred yards in front of them, windows long relieved of their glass, a jagged chunk of cement missing from a corner of the third story. “Not a whole lot goes on here. It’s mostly just a stop between the bigger settlements.”

“That would explain why it’s out in the middle of fucking nowhere,” Grantaire grumbles. The boots on his feet are at least a size too large, and the angular, bony parts of his feet have been rubbed raw by the hard leather.

Courfeyrac allows himself a grin that disappears a moment later. “When we get in, stay close. Don’t shoot anybody unless you have to. I’m Johnson, you’re Smith. Don’t do anything stupid.”

 

* * *

 

Grantaire had expected something a little nicer from a Collective facility. The plaster has crumbled from the walls, bits of debris and dirt cover the floors, and the wooden staircase Courfeyrac leads him down is all but rotted away.

They reach the basement and a guy in a black uniform similar to Courfeyrac’s hands him a few pieces of wrinkled paper. “Apparently the kid gave them a lot of shit back at HQ,” the guy says as Courfeyrac looks over the papers. “They just want you to get what you can out of him before he’s disposed of. Who the fuck is this?”

The guy’s looking right at him, and oh shit, Grantaire nearly forgets his name. “I’m Smith,” he says after a long pause.

“Smith...”

“Trainee,” Courfeyrac explains simply and hands the papers behind him, to Grantaire.

He scans over them quickly. The first page: _Jean Prouvaire, 18 years old, arrested for assault of an officer of the Collective. Held for questioning. Session 1 - No information obtained. Session 2 - No information obtained. Session 3 - No information obtained._ This goes on.

The next page: _Session 9 – Enjolras, 25, blonde, person of interest. Session halted upon prisoner’s loss of consciousness due to excessive bleeding._

The last page: _Prisoner drugged for transport to West station. Final questioning to be conducted by specialist before disposal._

“Did they get anything else out of him besides this…Enjolras?”

“Not really. Tight-lipped little shit, that one.”

There’s an opening in the floor that Grantaire soon learns is another staircase into a sub-basement. It’s little more than a large room with a dirt floor and one large electric light attached to a small generator.

He nearly trips over his own feet when he sees the kid. He’s unclothed but for a pair of jeans, wrists and ankles bound to the wooden chair he’s slumped over in. His hair was perhaps once blond, now the color of dirt and darkened in spots with the red-black of dried blood. He’s covered in bruises and burns, and in the damp of the sub-basement, he trembles ever so slightly, a thin layer of cold sweat covering his skin.

Grantaire looks to Courfeyrac, whose eyes are focused on Jehan, but he can tell his mind is far away. The man’s jaw tightens, and he shortens the distance between himself and the prisoner.

He slaps the boy across the face, and Jehan’s head turns to one side, but he does not look up. Courfeyrac grabs a handful of hair and tugs, raising the boy’s face to meet his. Jehan’s eyes are unfocused, and if he recognizes Courfeyrac, he doesn’t make any indication that’s the case. Whatever chems they gave him to transport him here haven’t completely worn off.

“Doesn’t have to be much longer now, kid,” Courfeyrac says to him, his fingers still gripping Jehan’s hair tightly. “You tell me a few things I wanna know and I’ll make sure you get a bullet between the eyes within the hour.”

Jehan’s eyelids flutter a bit, and his gaze starts to wander towards the floor. The white of his left eye is completely red, and the skin around it a deep purple. “Go fuck yourself,” he mumbles, and with a loud crack, Courfeyrac slaps him again. He doesn’t let go of Jehan’s hair.

“They told me you’d be a difficult little prick. Tell me about this Enjolras. Why are you protecting him?”

The boy remains silent and swallows hard. Courfeyrac waits a beat, and when Jehan doesn’t speak, he lets go of his hair and steps over to a footlocker near the generator.

He fidgets with the lock as he speaks. “I need you to listen to me very carefully, Prouvaire.” He stands, and holds a small metal case in his hands. The hard edge to his face is gone when he turns around, Grantaire notes, and he kneels down at Jehan’s feet and places a hand gently on his knee. “I need you to tell me exactly what they drugged you with.”

Jehan glances over at Grantaire, but immediately the act is broken. “I don’t know,” Jehan says quietly. “It hasn’t worn off yet. I feel…fuzzy. Heavy. Please, Courfeyrac, please, _please_ get me out of here.”

“I’m working on it, _petit_.” Courfeyrac glances to the stairway and the opening up to the basement. “Grantaire, I need you to go kill that guard upstairs. Quietly, if you would.”

The guard doesn’t expect it. Grantaire ascends the stairs, and the guy opens his mouth to ask something or other, but it’s difficult to speak when there are hands crushing your windpipe. He struggles, and claws at Grantaire’s hands and arms with his fingernails, digs out small furrows of skin and then claws at Grantaire’s face. No stranger to this particular strategy, Grantaire tips his head back, still pressing down against the man’s neck.

Eventually the man goes limp underneath him, and for good measure, Grantaire takes his head in his arms and twists, snapping the man’s neck.

He returns to the sub-basement and one of Courfeyrac’s hands holds a needle in the crook of Jehan’s arm and the other smooths the boy’s hair from his face. The metal case lies open on the floor, a few more syringes and small bottles of liquid nestled snugly in padding.

Jehan goes limp, and Courfeyrac cuts the twine holding his wrists and ankles to the chair. He quickly removes his jacket and maneuvers the boy’s slack arms into the sleeves of it. As he takes Jehan in his arms he tells Grantaire, “We’re going out the way we came. You’ll need to cover the three of us.”

“Am I allowed to shoot people now?”

“Yes, Grantaire. You’re allowed to shoot people now.”

 

* * *

 

Things like this tend to blur together.

Another set of stairs, a man with a gun, and then the man with the gun is dead and there’s a ringing in his ears and blood spattered on his jacket. Shouting, an alarm, bullets dig into the wall and the floor and into flesh and bone, yelling and screaming and _reload_ , and more bullets. Something whizzes right past his ear, ruffles his hair like a soft breath at his ear

Enjolras’ breath at his ear

Red, and crimson and wine, the glint of a knife in the low light and the burn on his arm, warm and wet, sticking to his jacket.

Door. Find the door. Courfeyrac’s voice in the middle of the noise, like a tether pulling him towards the way out. Courfeyrac, unconscious kid limp in his arms.

And then, sunlight through the haze, and they’re running, and Grantaire is shooting blindly behind him and keeping Courfeyrac and Jehan ahead of him because he thinks, in all the chaos, that they two must get back even if he does not.

 

* * *

 

It used to be a gas station. Grantaire lights a low fire in the middle of the room (the ceiling has mostly fallen down anyways) as Courfeyrac fumbles with a locked case that had been buried under debris.

It’s one of their safehouses. Jehan lies unconscious on the floor, and when Courfeyrac finally gets the case open, he pulls out a blanket and a plastic bottle filled with water and a stimpak. He tosses the water to Grantaire with a short whistle, and he catches it and twists the cap off. He drinks deep.

Courfeyrac plunges the long needle into Jehan’s neck and presses the button down gently. There’s a soft hiss, and after a few moments Jehan’s eyes flutter open.

"You're safe, _petit_.”

“Courfeyrac.” Jehan grips the man’s arm. The sleeves of Courfeyrac’s jacket are far too long on him. The low flames cast shadows in the single room of the gas station, throwing brief moments of light onto their faces.

Courfeyrac takes Jehan's hand gently from his arm, and he pushes aside the sleeve of the jacket so he may touch his lips to Jehan's hand, and then touch them longer, lighter, more gentle on the skin of his wrist rubbed raw by binding. 

“I am so, so sorry,” he says, barely loud enough for Grantaire to hear. “I will never lay my hands on you like that again.”

Jehan smiles sleepily. “Lay your hands on me,” he says, or repeats, Grantaire can’t tell which.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire lets them both sleep, Courfeyrac curled protectively around Jehan with the blanket draped over the two of them. The fire burns to embers.

There's a gash in his bicep, a souvenir from West station that is lazily oozing blood still, each heartbeat sending a jolt of dull pain through the broken skin. With his free arm he digs blindly in Courfeyrac's pack until he finds it -- a small tube of superglue that he opens with his teeth and squeezes out over the tear in his flesh. He pinches the skin together and waits for it to dry.

As he waits, Grantaire stares out hole in the ceiling, and wonders what stars would look like if the sky wasn’t covered with a thick haze of dust. He thinks of the rest of them, back at the power plant. He thinks of Enjolras.

 _Would that you were a braver man_.

Something in the air turns suddenly. Grantaire can feel it. He’s felt it before, that night up against the rock, claws like sharp razors digging into his shoulder. He remembers what it felt like to pull the dead thing’s claws from his flesh, how the blood gushed from the wounds in hot torrents.

There is a low growl in the darkness, and reflected in the dying light of the embers, Grantaire spots them: two glowing yellow eyes.

The thing, whatever it is, is in the room, and it's hungry, and it's going to tear Grantaire to shreds.


	5. Chapter 5

He doesn’t move a muscle, save for his eyes, which dart to the sleeping Courfeyrac and Jehan several feet away. If he tries to warn them, they’re all fucked. He doesn’t dare reach for the semiautomatic, though it sits a foot to his side.

Fuck. _Fuck._

In the low light Grantaire sees the beast tense. There’s nothing he can do but try to protect himself when it eventually attacks. He takes a slow, deep breath, and before he can exhale the man-eater lunges towards him.

The gun is in his hand before he even realizes, but he has no time to fire. Huge scaled fingers with long ebony claws pin him down to the floor, knocking the air from his lungs. Grantaire gasps for breath as he thrusts his forearm against the beast’s throat, holding back the snapping jaw lined with rows of razor-sharp teeth inches from his face.

He’s going to die. He’s going to die right now on the floor of the gas station; he’s going to be torn to bloody ribbons and his flesh eaten and his bones left to sit there. God fucking damn it he is going to die.

There is a loud bang, and the beast snarls and turns away from Grantaire. Courfeyrac stands several feet away, shotgun in his arms and a look of fierce determination on his face. He pumps the gun and two empty shotgun shells clatter to the floor, still hot.

The beast turns away from Grantaire, releasing him, but its claws absently drag over his neck and chest. Grantaire doesn’t have time to feel pain. He feels nothing but his heart pounding in his chest and a dull heat where the claws broke skin. As the man-eater stalks towards Courfeyrac there is a fury of bullets, a deafening noise, and when the two men’s guns are both empty, the beast falls dead on the floor.

“We need to get the fuck out of here,” Grantaire says as he immediately moves to pack his belongings. Adrenaline courses through him, and he forgets the tears in his skin. “How far is the rendezvous?”

“A few miles south,” Courfeyrac replies. He pulls Jehan up and helps him wrap the blanket around his shoulders. He places his hand on the boy’s face, a silent question in his eyes, and Jehan places his own hand atop Courfeyrac’s and nods.

Courfeyrac quietly pulls him closer with a hand on the back of his head. He places a firm, brief kiss on Jehan’s forehead.

“Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

It really isn’t that far, but Jehan is dehydrated and weak, and his muscles stiff from lack of use. The three of them are slow-moving, but within a couple hours they arrive at the rendezvous.

Old and rusted away, the van sits in the middle of a field. Well, less of a field and more of a large expanse of dust dotted with patches of long, dry grass. In a strange way it’s so out in the open that it’s almost invisible.

The first thing Enjolras does is take Jehan in his arms and hold him, eyes screwed shut, a mix of relief and joy washing over his face. He murmurs something in the boy’s ear, something Grantaire can’t hear, and Jehan sobs just once and grasps Enjolras tighter.

After several moments Enjolras opens his eyes and glances over at Grantaire, who for the first time since the gas station is beginning to feel unsteady on his feet.

He’s right in front of him then, Enjolras, closer than he’s ever been before, beautiful and radiant and so sickeningly perfect. His hands hold the sides of Grantaire’s head and oh, is he speaking? Speak forever, speak always, never stop speaking.

“Grantaire?” His eyelids flutter and that perfect face in front of him begins to blur.

Grantaire lazily places a hand on Enjolras’ chest. “Have I ever told you, Enjolras…”

Enjolras must notice the blood seeping through the jacket, torn at the neck. He pulls the fabric aside and pales. “My god, Grantaire, you’re hurt—“

Ah, _there_ it is. The pain rushes forth and Grantaire slumps against Enjolras’ chest as his legs give out beneath him.

Enjolras is lowering him to the dirt, he’s calling back to the van for Combeferre, yelling for him to hurry, his hands are pressed against Grantaire’s neck and chest and they slip for a moment, there’s something slippery and hot, there’s something—

And then there's nothing.

 

* * *

 

He goes in and out, waves on the ocean, back and forth.

The dark dissipates for a moment and he’s screaming, he thinks, everything is pain and there are firm hands holding his shoulders down on something cold.

“…hold him down, Joly…”

“…give him something for the pain…”

“…too much blood, he’s too weak, it’ll kill him…”

There’s another voice in his ear now, clean and light and low, only for him and no one else. “Stay with us, Grantaire.”

Gladly. Anything for that voice.

There’s dark again. It’s deep, deeper than anything ever could be. He’s sinking, falling, drowning in the dark and really that’s okay, because the pain is gone. There’s not a sound, not a heartbeat nor the noise of air filling his lungs, and everything is still.

 

* * *

 

There’s a sudden pressure on his chest, and his lungs fill with air, and everything hurts again. His heart is pounding, his eyes are open but it’s too bright to see anything, and he reaches out and grasps for anything near because it _hurts_ , it hurts more than he ever thought it could.

His hand grasps a fistful of fabric tightly. Another’s hand rests on top of his. “Grantaire?”

He can’t speak, he can’t see, but he can breathe and he is alive. He pulls on the fabric in his hand and a figure leans towards him, silhouetted by an electric light. He pulls the man close.

The man doesn’t say anything. He lets Grantaire hold him there for a couple minutes, silent, until the fingers that grip him slacken and his hand goes limp against his torso. The man speaks, “You were dead for a couple of minutes.”

It’s the same voice from before, or did he dream that? Clean and light and low and only for him. “Actually, legitimately, 100% not alive. You’re lucky Combeferre taught us all CPR.”

His heart is starting to beat at a less rapid pace, his breathing is slowly becoming more even, and as his eyes adjust to the light he sees that it’s Enjolras he had grabbed. Enjolras, who had given him his breath and brought him back.

“You could have just let me die,” Grantaire manages to rasp out weakly, and Enjolras actually smiles at that. It’s a sad sort of a smile, but a smile just the same.

“You’re one of us. We don’t leave our people behind.”

If his head were not pounding fiercely he would have rolled his eyes. “Where are we?”

“In the back of the van,” Enjolras replies. That would explain the cold, hard metal beneath him then. “Jehan is very weak. He’s dehydrated, and malnourished, and they fucked him up pretty badly.” There’s anger in his voice, but it only lasts a moment and quickly fades. “It would have been impossible to move you both back to base at the same time.”

“So how long do we stay in the rusty old van?”

“Until our friends come back for us.”

 

* * *

 

They spend two days in the back of the van. Enjolras is softer there, far less intense and wound-up than he is back at the power plant. On the first day he takes Grantaire’s fingers and lightly runs them over the stitches Combeferre had done, snaking across his neck and chest.

“It’s a fucking miracle I’m alive,” Grantaire says. “Bastard must have just missed my jugular.”

“That’s what Combeferre said.”

“Courfeyrac saved my life, you know.”

“He’s quite handy in a pinch, isn’t he?”

“What happens when the Collective comes looking for him? They know his face. They know he’s got to be around here somewhere.”

“We bleed them. All of them.”

“You’re terrifying, you know that?”

Enjolras smiles.

 _Smile forever, beautiful creature_.

 

* * *

 

That night is cold, colder than it has any right to be. Even under the blanket Courfeyrac left behind, Grantaire shivers.

For a couple hours he silently freezes, until he feels one corner of the blanket lift and a warm body settle in behind him.

He doesn’t say a word. The two men lie flush next to each other. Grantaire’s heart beats so hard he worries Enjolras will be able to hear it through his ribs.

But Enjolras says nothing, just sighs contentedly as they begin to warm each other, bodies becoming less and less tense.

Grantaire slowly falls asleep, lulled by a soft breath on the back of his neck and a gentle arm wrapping around his waist.

 

* * *

 

 

“Grantaire, wake up.”

He does. He’s about to ask what’s going on but Enjolras places a firm hand over his mouth. He places his finger to his lips— _do not speak_ —and then removes his hand from Grantaire’s face.

He hears them then as he sits up. At least four of them, chattering loudly close to where the van rests in the field. Slavers? Raiders? One can never be sure, even when they get a good look at them.

Enjolras is alert. Straight and tense, he reaches down into the holster strapped to his calf and touches his pistol gently, as if to reassure himself that it’s there.

“Stay here.”

Before Grantaire can protest, the door to the van is open and a sliver of light blinds him. After a moment it’s shut again. The familiar darkness takes Grantaire in, and he wishes he weren’t too weak to stand.

Goddamn idiot’s gonna get himself shot and there’s nothing Grantaire can do to stop him.


	6. Chapter 6

He’s insane. He’s utterly fucking insane and he’s gonna get them both killed. Grantaire scoots over to the door, which Enjolras has left open just a sliver. He peers out into the dusty air.

Yes, there’s four of them, hardened by the wastes and generally nasty-looking. Walking several feet behind them is a skinny young man, hunched over and weighed down by the nomads’ belongings. A slave, most likely. Grantaire’s suspicions are confirmed when the young man shifts his weight onto his other leg and a long chain attached to a collar around his neck catches the light.

He can’t make out what Enjolras is saying to the men, but it doesn’t matter much, as in an instant guns are drawn and Enjolras is exchanging bullets with the four men.

He’s gonna get shot. There’s no way he’s getting out of this one alive.

But he’s Enjolras, so of course he does. All four nomads lie in the dirt, and when one of them stirs, Enjolras takes two long steps over to him and puts a bullet in his head.

The only other one left standing is the slave.

 

* * *

 

 

They stay the night there in the rusted-out van, Grantaire, Enjolras, and the slave.

“What are you called?” Enjolras asks him as he works on breaking the chain with a rock and a chunk of iron.

The slave is quiet, timid, and he trembles slightly – in cold or in fear, Grantaire cannot tell. “Marius,” he says softly. A dusting of freckles shows through the layer of grime on his face, and he might have been handsome were he not someone’s property.

“Marius,” Enjolras repeats, and pounds a couple of times at the chain. “Do you have a home? Family?”

He shakes his head. “I did, once. They’re gone now.”

With one final bang on the iron, the chain breaks and Enjolras pulls it off of the collar. “You’re free to go your own way,” he says to Marius. “Or you can come with us.”

For the first time Marius’ face softens into something akin to a smile.

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

They sleep huddled together in the back of the van, the three of them curled up under the blanket. Out in the wastes, the days are hot and the nights are frigid, and staying close together will lessen the chance of them freezing. Grantaire lies between Enjolras and Marius. He can hear Marius breathing next to him, slow and deep, and the young man must be asleep.

He closes his eyes but he can’t relax. His stitched wounds pain him. His bruised ribs ache where Enjolras had pushed down on his chest to circulate his blood while his heart decided to crap out on him. He’s hungry, and thirsty, and feels just generally shitty. Sleep is impossible.

Grantaire slowly turns onto his side, careful not to disturb the two sleeping on either end of him. When he opens his eyes though, he sees that Enjolras is awake. And he’s staring at him.

Grantaire blinks. Enjolras is on his side, facing Grantaire, watching him in the dark. Grantaire stares back at him, not daring close his eyes again just in case this is a dream or a hallucination or some kind of trick of the dark.

They watch each other for what seems like an eternity. After a time Enjolras’s eyes shift downwards, and with an achingly slow movement he raises a hand up to run a thumb across Grantaire’s lower lip.

Marius stirs in his sleep, and the moment shatters like glass.

Enjolras turns onto his other side and Grantaire shifts onto his back once again.

God damn it.

 

* * *

  
Grantaire doesn’t dream. He hasn’t since he was child.

Feuilly comes for them the next morning, riding on a beat-up four-wheeler, wearing his ridiculous goggles and waving wildly.

Grantaire can’t bring himself to meet Enjolras’ eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s strange, having somewhere that feels like home. He’s been wandering around for so many years he had nearly forgotten what it’s like to have roots. Joly helps him to his sleeping quarters – the end of a hallway on the second floor of the plant, a beat-up couch pushed into the corner and one fluorescent light above it casting eerie shadows onto his meager belongings.

Joly all but tucks him in, feels his forehead for fever, changes his bandages. It makes Grantaire feel like a boy again, sick with a cold, his mother fretting over him.

“I appreciate it, Doc, but it’s really not necessary—“

“Nonsense.” Joly takes Grantaire’s wrist and places two fingers down to check his pulse. He looks down at his watch while he speaks. “You really gave us a scare.” He makes a small hum, satisfied with Grantaire’s heartbeat, and gives him a very serious look. “You’re not quite out of the woods yet, you know.”

That didn’t really occur to him, to be honest. He was unconscious for the majority of the time taken in attempt to save his life, so he doesn’t know how much of his blood was spilled, or how many times his heart stopped beating. He didn't see Combeferre give up and Enjolras grab his sleeve and beg him to keep trying.

“Rest for now. I’ll check in on you later,” Joly tells him, standing up off the ratty couch. “Lights on or off?”

“Off. Thanks.”

Joly gives him a comforting smile and retreats down the hallway. He flips the light switch when he reaches the end, and Grantaire is once again left in the dark.

 

* * *

  
He dreams.

He dreams so vividly he can almost swear it’s real. Limbs tangled together, a hand on his hand and a hand in his hair, a pair of lips on the place where jaw and ear and neck all meet, a stiffness pressing against his thigh.

Light stubble gently brushing down his chest and his torso.

His hands tangled, lost in golden curls. Warmth, heat, _need_ , he’s panting and biting his lip and tightening his fists in that perfect fucking hair. He’s close, _so close_.

He wakes with a start, covered in a sheen of sweat and suddenly embarrassed at his hardness.

 _You’ve got it bad_.


	7. Chapter 7

With the cold comes the snow. It covers the dust and the dirt, the weeds that grow thick and thorny across the hills, the power plant itself. Thick flakes fall lazily to the ground, gray and ashy, tainted by the haze in the air that blocks out the light of the sun.

Grantaire’s wounds have mostly healed. He feels little pains from time to time, sharp stabbing pulses at the edges of his scars. They run pink and white over his collarbone and across his neck and his chest, twisting and tight and awful.

“I think they’re quite rugged,” Jehan tells him the night the snow falls. “They suit you.”

He disagrees. “I’m just lucky the bastards didn’t fuck up my face.”

The two men sit side by side on the floor in front of Grantaire’s couch, a mug of hot water in each of their hands (with something that resembles whiskey mixed into Grantaire’s) and the tiniest of fires burning in front of them. Grantaire has warmed to the kid since they two were invalids together while they recovered, and when Courfeyrac is busy with _business_ the two spend lazy evenings together.

Jehan sips his hot water. “I could cover them up for you, if you’d like.”

Grantaire has seen Courfeyrac’s tattoos—beasts of the wasteland and curls of smoke that wrap around his midsection and up the side of his chest. He doesn’t need to ask what Jehan means. “You’d do that for me?”

The boy smiles.

He doesn’t take long to get his things, and soon after he’s burning whatever paper Grantaire has to spare and collecting the ashes in a bowl. He mixes the ashes in water, stirring with a chunk of brick until it’s smooth and black and ready.

Grantaire lays on his back next to the fire, and Jehan works. “Vines, I think,” Jehan says, wrapping a length of string around the end of a needle. “Vines, and maneater claws. There’s a flower that grows nearby here, I don’t know what it’s called but it’s dark blue and the inside is a bright orange and it reminds me of you, so probably some of those as well.” He’s rambling, as he is wont to do.

“Whatever you think looks good, kid,” Grantaire says with a smile.

It hurts like hell. He doesn’t even have much feeling in the scar tissue but it stings nevertheless. Jehan pricks him with the needle, letting the ink on the string drip into the wound, dipping the needle and string back into the water and ash every few pricks. Jehan keeps talking, wiping Grantaire’s skin with a cloth every so often.

“Something’s going to happen soon,” he says. “Courfeyrac won’t say exactly what, which is fine, they do that a lot, the three of them. Courfeyrac and Combeferre and Enjolras, I mean. They kind of leave the rest of us out the loop until it’s absolutely necessary to inform us.”

“Enjolras won’t even speak to me.” Grantaire winces as the needle pricks the scar tissue above his collarbone. “Not that I’d have anything to say to him, anyway.”

Jehan bites back a grin. “Nothing?”

“Christ, Jehan, that stings!”

“Of course it stings, you’re being repeatedly stabbed, now hold still.”

He does his best. Jehan sits back and observes his work so far, then continues. “He’s different when he’s around you. Enjolras. He’s more, I don’t know, on edge. Tense? I don’t know how to describe it.”

Grantaire’s heart does something strange. It leaps, or falls, or a combination of both, and his breath hitches.

“Or maybe I’m misinterpreting things,” Jehan says after a moment.

He finishes a long vine that snakes the path one of the maneater’s claws dug into Grantaire’s flesh before the pain gets so bad Grantaire has to ask him to stop for the night. Jehan holds up half of a mirror so Grantaire can admire the work done.

He ghosts his fingertips across the skin, black from the ink, red around the edges, tender and sore. “Jehan. I love it.”

Jehan beams, and the room suddenly seems illuminated.

 

* * *

 

Several weeks pass. More snow falls. Jehan works on his masterpiece nightly, adding more designs as fast as he and Grantaire can think them up.

Grantaire is in the middle of a card game with Feuilly when he suddenly feels very hot, and very cold, and very sick, and he stands up to try to shake the feeling but immediately passes out. Feuilly calls for help, and they get him comfortable in his living quarters, but he doesn’t wake until the next morning.

A fever grips him, plunging him into a hell of tremors and hallucinations. His body burns and then freezes, his muscles tense and ache, his head is cloudy and it takes all of his strength to even keep his eyes open. Time doesn’t exist. Nothing really exists but the fever.

They take turns keeping watch over him. Hold a water bottle to his lips. Wipe the sweat from his brow. Try to get him to eat bits of bread or crackers.

Some things are real. Joly is real, holding his wrist against Grantaire’s forehead and frowning. The corridor he lives in is real. The couch he sleeps on is real.

Some things may not be real. The noises he hears. The strangers roaming the hallway, watching him from a distance. The bright lights and the blood staining his hands.

Grantaire’s in the middle of the worst of it and Enjolras refuses to leave his side. “There isn’t very much you can do,” Combeferre tells him, a look of sympathy and understanding in his eyes. “The fever will break, or it won’t.”

Enjolras says nothing. He lifts Grantaire gently, bending him at the waist, leaving just enough room to slide onto the beat-up couch behind him. He lowers Grantaire, adjusts the blanket, and holds him.

This Grantaire knows is real. The warm body behind him, legs on either side of him, arms across his chest. He breathes easier, closes his eyes, and despite the shivering he can’t seem to stop no matter how hard he tries, he feels calm for once.

There’s a hand running through his hair. That’s real. A soft voice in his ear, grounding him, soothing him to sleep.

That’s definitely real.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras is still there when he wakes.

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I know. I want to stay.”

He puts a cloth to Grantaire’s brow and wipes away the beads of sweat that collect there.

“I never planned on staying.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I came here with Joly that first time. I wasn’t gonna stay.”

“So why did you?”

Grantaire closes his eyes. “It felt right. It was easier. I don’t know.”

They lay there on the couch in silence for several minutes. Enjolras rubs tiny circles into Grantaire’s arm with his thumb.

He speaks, and the silence breaking would have startled Grantaire had the voice not been so soft; instead he simply opens his eyes. “Combeferre thinks we’re going to be attacked, and soon.”

“By the Collective?”

Enjolras hums a small affirmative. “They’ve been patrolling closer and closer to base. Feuilly can see them from the lookout point without the scope on his rifle.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Fight back.” As if it's the most obvious thing in the world. 

Grantaire closes his eyes again, feeling himself drift off into yet another long sleep. “You’re gonna get yourself killed, you know that? They’re gonna blow you to pieces, you stupid child. And if this fever doesn’t break I’m not even gonna be alive to give your sorry ass an ‘I told you so’.”

Enjolras chuckles softly. “You’re sweet when you’re ill.”

Grantaire doesn’t say anything else. He’s weak, and even the short bit of conversations has drained him of any energy he had. Enjolras stays where he is, a cross between lying behind him and lying beneath him, keeping Grantaire in his arms as the man falls back into sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

“Stay.”

A sad smile, his face softens. Courfeyrac cups Jehan’s cheek with a gentle hand. “If I could, I’d never leave your side,” he says. “But the snow hasn’t stopped and if we don’t go, we’ll all starve.”

The nearest settlement is a day away by foot, and with the snow’s relentless fall on the wastes it will take longer. Jehan knows Courfeyrac is in capable hands – Bahorel was born much further north than the rest of them, and is no stranger to traveling through a deep freeze. On top of that the man is downright deadly. Jehan once witnessed him throw a punch so brutal the impact snapped a man’s neck. If he weren’t such a gentle soul, Jehan would be terrified of him.

Courfeyrac pushes a cloth through the chambers of his revolver’s cylinder with a thin stick. He wipes the barrel with the cloth, spins the cylinder and clicks it shut. Jehan places small boxes of bullets in a neat stack next to Courfeyrac’s pack, trying to be helpful though his heart is heavy.

“If you die, I will die,” he says quietly, staring at the stack of little boxes, unable to meet his partner’s eyes.

He doesn’t shift his gaze from the bullets until he feels an arm snake around his waist. Courfeyrac pulls him into his arms, the two pressed together chest to groin, and he runs a hand down Jehan’s cheek. He softly thumbs over his lower lip.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he says. “I left, I walked for days. I wandered. I was destroyed without you, my light. My heart.”

He lets his thumb rest just beneath the corner of Jehan’s lips. “I spent entire nights with the barrel of a gun at my temple and my finger on the trigger, trying to work up the nerve to pull it.” Jehan’s eyes fill with tears, but he doesn’t let them fall. “But I knew if I had you would thrash me when we met again.”

He presses his lips to Jehan and kisses him slowly, deliberately. Jehan closes his eyes and drinks him in.

Courfeyrac pulls away only just far enough so he can speak. “I am yours, but you are mine, too. You have to live, Jehan.”

Jehan places his small hands on Courfeyrac’s chest and waits several long moments before speaking. “For you, I suppose can manage that much.” His hands move to both sides of Courfeyrac’s face, and he stares intently into the man’s eyes. “Promise me, Courfeyrac. Promise you won’t do anything needlessly heroic. Don’t throw your life away if you don’t have to.” He blinks, and Courfeyrac nods just once. “After all, you are mine.”

They embrace, two points of warmth in the dim, cold room, each one content to stay thus as long as necessity will allow.

 

* * *

 

The snow keeps falling. The wastes are a wash of white, the hills blending into one another in an indiscernible sea of white. Harsh winds rattle what glass is left in the windowpanes of the power plant, and snow manages to blow in through the cracks and the weak spots in the roof.

“You can’t sleep here anymore,” Enjolras says to Grantaire one night. The couch at the end of the corridor has a fine dusting of powder-white on it, and Grantaire’s pride isn’t enough to stop his teeth from chattering.

“But all of my stuff is here.”

“You almost died. Twice.” Enjolras pulls a ratty blanket off of the couch and begins to fold it. “You’re still weak and it’s not going to stop snowing anytime soon, and you can’t sleep here anymore.”

He grabs the other blanket (more of a bed sheet, really) covering Grantaire’s feet and winds it around his arm. “Come on.” He’s halfway down the corridor before Grantaire can make sense of what’s happening and stands up shakily to follow him.

The plant isn’t terribly large, but some of the hallways have collapsed, bits of the floor are missing and ceilings have begun to crumble. Everything smells of dust and decay, old paper and dirt, something stale and stagnant and long-dead. Grantaire follows Enjolras through the halls, ducking under the occasional fallen ceiling beam, a pillow grasped in one hand and his duffel bag in the other.

It isn’t until they’re climbing the rickety stairs up to the control tower that he realizes where they’re going.

Enjolras drops the blankets onto his bed unceremoniously and takes Grantaire’s duffel from him. He places it in one of the open lockers and motions to the twin bed in the corner. “You can just toss that on there.”

“Are you fucking with me right now?”

The blonde man gives him a blank look. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You want me to stay in your room. With you.”

“Yes.”

“You only have one bed.”

“Yes.”

Everything stops but Grantaire’s heart beating in his chest. He can feel it pounding in his throat. The room is a stagnant, frozen blur except for the man standing in front of him, staring back at him, his features unreadable but something alight in his eyes.

There’s nothing left to talk about. Months of tension release in a flurry of arms and hands and lips and tongues, two bodies pressed together, Grantaire backing Enjolras into the lockers. Something inside one of the lockers clatters out of place, but it’s no matter because Enjolras’ hands are in his hair and on his neck and his lips are soft and wet and _hot_ , so hot he fears he’ll burn.

He sucks gently at Enjolras’ lower lip where his teeth have bitten the skin swollen. A sigh, a hand slipping down past a waistband, a sharp intake of breath, a soft and satisfied moan.

Ecstasy is feeling Enjolras’ knees going weak. It’s Grantaire’s hand, relentless, and the firm heat it grips. It’s Enjolras’ breath hot on his neck, the marks his teeth leave behind, the sweet sting of his fingernails digging into Grantaire’s shoulders.

He wants to tell him he’s wanted him like this since the moment he saw him. He wants to tell him how magnificent he is, how wonderful and perfect and radiant. He wants to tell him he’ll follow him to hell and back, he’ll do anything he asks, he needs only say the word and Grantaire will obey.

But he doesn’t tell him any of this. Instead he brings him to his peak and holds him as he rides it down.

There’s nothing left to talk about.

 

* * *

 

 

There is snow behind them and in front of them and on all sides of them, nothing but snow and wind, anything else invisible even in broad daylight.

Courfeyrac walks several feet ahead of Bahorel, as they have switched off who makes tracks for the other to follow in. His fingers are nearly frozen, and he wants more than anything a hot cup of coffee and a warm blanket, to hell with this supply run.

But present matters are pressing, so the two men soldier on.

Suddenly there is a loud crack, and a splatter of red on the snow. Courfeyrac quickly turns just in time to see Bahorel fall to his knees, blood spurting from a hole in his neck that wasn’t there just a moment ago.

Courfeyrac grabs him as he slowly lists to one side and falls into the snow, and places one hand on the wound and the other on top of it, pressing down to stop his friend from bleeding out. “No, no, no, no.” There isn’t anything else he can say. Blood slips hot through his fingers, steam rising into the air. “No, god, no.”

But Bahorel is already dead, his eyes staring lifeless into the sky.

The silence is heavy, overwhelming. For a moment Courfeyrac considers reaching for his revolver, tucked cozy inside his coat, and firing in the direction from where the sniper's bullet came. But he promised (he remembers with a pang of sadness and the memory of green eyes and two small hands on the sides of his face), he promised not to throw his life away.

So instead he stands, puts his hands above his head, screams out his surrender and hopes and prays he’ll be spared.


	9. Chapter 9

Disorientation. His head is heavy on his neck but feels light and fuzzy. His breath bounces back hot onto his lips and nose – something rough and woven has been placed over his head. He test his limbs – legs all pins and needles twisted underneath him, wrists bound together behind his back. His shoulders are stiff and his head aches – one hot throbbing point at his temple the source of it, something wet pasting what must be burlap to his skin.

“He’s back.” Courfeyrac’s head lifts at the sound of the voice several feet away, a low rasp that shatters the silence. There are footsteps on dirt, a pause, and whatever was covering his head is torn off, opening the fresh scab at his temple.

The light is dim but nevertheless it takes several moments for Courfeyrac’s eyes to adjust. He squints and tries to look up at the figure crouching on his ankles in front of him. His eyelids flutter, he feels dizzy and sleepy and thinks how lovely it would be to just close his eyes and drift off.

No. Stay alive.

“Hey, hey.” The man in front of him pats the side of Courfeyrac’s face a couple of times. “Stay awake.”

“I have money,” Courfeyrac says, his voice smaller than he intended it to be. His head is spinning, he feels like he’s going to be sick.

“Not anymore you don’t.”

“Then why am I still alive?”

The man smiles, his teeth surprisingly bright, a fox in the guise of a man. “Because you still have some value to me,” he says. He feels a chill; it has nothing to do with the cold. “Don’t you recognize me, Courfeyrac?”

He doesn’t. His eyes have adjusted by now and he finally can get a good look at the man’s face, unmarked save for a leather patch over his right eye.

It comes back to him in a rush. A scuffle, the barrel of a pistol pressing against the soft spot under Combeferre’s ear, the man’s grip tight on Combeferre and Enjolras aiming, firing, blood spraying on Courfeyrac’s cheek and glasses, the man falling, and the three of them – Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac – fleeing.

“Montparnasse.”

The man grins again. “Surprise, fucker.”

“We thought you were dead.”

“Yeah, I know. You probably should have shot me again.”

“Your eye—“

Montparnasse lifts the patch to show the mangled scarring underneath, red and pink, where his eye should be. “Sick, right?”

This isn’t good. No, this is very, very bad. Bad for Courfeyrac, bad for Enjolras, Jehan, all of them.

Montparnasse lowers the patch and stands up. “Consider my options: I know Enjolras will pay for your relatively safe return. But I also know the Collective will pay better for you, dead or alive.” He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a piece of paper, folded and crinkled. He opens it and holds it in front of Courfeyrac’s face, and he sees himself staring back – his Collective ID photo. “Really, you’re lucky I grabbed you before you got further south. These things are put up all over the settlements down there.”

Lucky. He remembers Bahorel’s face in the few seconds it took for him to bleed out, shocked and terrified and pleading. “Fuck you,” he spits.

The blow hits him with a force he could have never expected. He doesn’t even realize he’s been hit until he’s spitting out blood. Courfeyrac runs his tongue over his lip and tastes iron, feels where the skin has split, something wet running down his chin. Montparnasse is strong, and dangerous, and Courfeyrac realizes immediately he isn’t one to be underestimated.

“Manners, Courfeyrac.” He folds the piece of paper with Courfeyrac’s face on it and puts it back into his pocket. “In all honesty I have no desire to deal with the Collective. As I’m sure you know, they’re mostly assholes. If Enjolras wants to pay for you, so be it. If not, I’ll find some other way to make some money off of you, and get back at that son of a bitch for shooting me in the fucking eye.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t want to think about how else Montparnasse could possibly make money off of him. His head is still fuzzy, and the hit he took has made the room start spinning again. He closes his eyes and feels as though he is going to lose consciousness at any moment.

“Hey.” Courfeyrac looks up, and Montparnasse is holding something small and black and electronic. “You ever been on camera before?”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras’ bed is tiny. Grantaire’s feet stick off the end of it and the two men are pressed so closely together Grantaire can feel Enjolras’ heart beating in his chest. He doesn’t mind.

There are no windows in the control room but by now it must be past sunrise. Enjolras still lies fast asleep, his breaths slow and deep, overgrown blonde curls fallen into his face. He’s lovely like this, Grantaire thinks, quiet and still and peaceful. It’s strange, but a good strange.

You know what else is strange? Giving a hand job to a man who confuses the shit out of you and then falling asleep with him in his tiny bed.

No matter. It’s such a rare sight to see the man completely at peace, Grantaire just drinks in the moment rather than dwells on what may happen when Enjolras wakes up. He is curled up into Grantaire, his cheek resting on the man’s upper arm, his breath hot on Grantaire’s chest.

The blanket has fallen from Grantaire’s shoulder. He attempts to swing his arm around to pull the corner back up, but the movement makes Enjolras stir. He inhales sharply, suddenly awake, though his eyes remain closed. “What time is it?” he asks, sleep slurring his voice.

“No idea.” Enjolras’ eyes blink open and he raises his head to look up at Grantaire. A slow smile spreads across his face, a smile like a sunburst, like a thousand lights, like molten gold, spilled.

“I didn’t think…I mean, I wasn’t sure that you…”

Now it’s Grantaire’s turn to smile. “Have I finally rendered you speechless? It’s a fucking miracle.”

Enjolras scowls, but leans up and presses his lips to Grantaire’s. He kisses him, slow and lazy, sleep still hanging off of him. “You’re vulgar,” he says into Grantaire’s lips.

“You’re beautiful.”

Lips touch, hearts beat, nothing else really exists or matters.

 

* * *

 

This is the calm before the storm.

Feuilly spots the kid coming from half a mile off, holding a yellow rag in the air with one hand and the other raised palm out as a show of non-aggression. It isn’t until he gets closer that Feuilly recognizes him.

“Gav!” he calls down from the lookout point. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Message for the chief!” the kid calls back, shoving the yellow rag into his pocket and pulling out something in a small plastic case.

They give him food and water and let him put his feet up on the table. “He comes in handy sometimes,” Feuilly explains to Grantaire, sipping a glass of water as Enjolras places the memory card Gavroche has brought into an old digital camera. “Hangs out with some real assholes but he’s a good kid.”

Enjolras queues up the video on the camera and nearly drops it immediately.

“Combeferre.”

Immediately the other man is at his side, the two peering down into the scratched LCD screen.

“Dearest, most darling Enjolras.” Grantaire watches as the color drains from the man’s face at the sound of the voice in the video. “We’ve got your man and you’ve got cash and guns. Three days to make an offer, on the fourth day we sell him for scrap. Ta.”

The next ten minutes consist of Courfeyrac bound and beaten. Combeferre has to walk away when Montparnasse pulls out a very sharp, very shiny knife, but Enjolras’ eyes never leave the screen. Feuilly and Grantaire simply listen, Gavroche alternating between picking his fingernails and nibbling at a heel of bread he had been given.

The video stops, and Enjolras places the camera on the table. He takes one long, deep breath, exhales slowly, then turns to the kid. “Gavroche, what about our other friend? Bahorel?”

“Oh, he’s dead. They shot him first and then Courfeyrac surrendered.”

Feuilly smashes the glass in his hand to the floor.

Enjolras closes his eyes, takes another breath, and then asks slowly, “Was Courfeyrac still alive when you left?”

“Yeah, didn’t you hear ‘Parnasse? They’re not gonna kill him, not yet anyway. I’m supposed to go back with your answer.”

“Tell him…” Enjolras’ eyes meet Grantaire’s. Sadness, anger, fear – Grantaire digs his fingernails into his palms. “Tell him I accept and will pay generously for our friend’s return. Tell him to send you back with details of an exchange. Got that?”

Gavroche mock-salutes, and once he’s equipped with more bread and a bottle of water, he’s on his way out into the snow.

The four of them – Enjolras, Combeferre, Grantaire and Feuilly – stand in silence for several minutes. It’s Enjolras who finally breaks it, speaking quiet and clear, “I am going to kill him.”

Grantaire turns away from the group, walking slowly towards the hallway. “Where are you going?” Feuilly calls behind him. Grantaire slowly turns.

“Someone’s gotta tell Jehan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely not the story I started off telling but it kind of threw itself in this direction and I was powerless to stop it! Leave me some love in the comments (or hate, or indifference, or whatever), and as always thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

Teeth chattering, fingers stiff and red, Courfeyrac pulls his arms in closer to his chest and grasps at his sleeves. They had taken his coat and his boots a long while ago, to further discourage an escape attempt he figures, and the concrete cellar he is chained up in offers no warmth.

He is going to freeze, he thinks.

He’s not sure how long he’s been down there, or if he will be fed, or whether or not he is to be ransomed. There is a chain bolted to the brick wall, the other end wound snugly around an ankle and secured with a padlock. They’ve left his hands unbound, which was nice of them, he thinks with a scoff.

Nothing happens for a very long time. He sits. He sleeps. He stares at the splotches of dark black-red that cover the floor where he’d been beaten.

He’s asleep when one of them comes down, and he jolts awake when the door slams behind him. He doesn’t know their names. This one is tall, older than Montparnasse but not the oldest, blonde.

He holds up a small cardboard box. “You wanna eat, kid?”

Courfeyrac says nothing. Of course he fucking does. Shivering, he holds out his hand.

The guy shakes his head. “What do you say?”

He doesn’t want to give this asshole any satisfaction. But, he hasn’t eaten since he and Bahorel left the power plant, and if there’s a chance he’ll survive this he has to take it.

“Please.”

“What was that?” The guy puts his other hand to his ear mockingly. “Come again?”

Courfeyrac closes his eyes. “Please,” he says louder through gritted teeth.

The man grins and tosses the box to the floor in front of Courfeyrac, its contents rattling. He reaches forward and picks up the box – dry pasta – and it takes all of his effort to tear open the cardboard with his fingers stiff and likely frostbitten as they are.

He grabs a handful of pasta and shoves it in his mouth, chewing and immediately regretting it. His teeth ache, broken shards cut at his gums, and he reluctantly swallows. It sucks, but it’s food.

After a minute or two of swallowing down what may be the worst meal he’s ever eaten, Courfeyrac realizes the man is still standing there in front of him. His eyes slowly travel upwards to meet his.

“What?”

“I didn’t take you for a fag at first but I see it now.” He tilts his head to one side. “You’re fucking soft.”

Courfeyrac puts down the box of pasta as the guy steps closer. He keeps repeating bits of his own wisdom in his head: _Just cooperate, don’t make them angry, be compliant, pain is temporary but death is permanent._

It doesn’t stop the fear rising in him, up through his chest and into his throat, itching, clawing. He sees the man lift his boot, cries out a quick “Don’t—“ and flinches just before the boot connects with his arm.

He tries to make himself as small as possible, pulling his limbs close to his body but keeping his hands up, palms out.

There’s a hand tugging at his hair then, and the unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone. Courfeyrac grits his teeth tight beneath his lips and attempts to pull his head from the man’s grasp, but the chill of a blade at his throat stops him.

The hand in his hair twists, and it stings. “You bite, you bleed.”

If he can get the knife — _be compliant_  — his hands are stiff and numb but if he can get it — _pain is temporary but death is permanent_  — he just has to be quick —

The door to the cellar opens and a sliver of light illuminates the cellar. “Babet.”

Immediately the hand untangles from Courfeyrac’s hair and the knife is gone. He closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath. He’s aware of the voices, a muttered apology, a barked order, and the cellar door slamming shut once again.

When he opens his eyes Montparnasse is crouching in front of him. He holds up a canteen. “I know you’d suck dick for the chance to stab a guy — I mean, who wouldn’t, right? — but I need that guy, so you can’t. Sorry.”

Courfeyrac takes the canteen. He tries to unscrew the cap but his fingers won’t move like he wants them to. Montparnasse grins, an infuriating, terrifying thing, and takes the canteen back to assist.

He can feel the water hit his stomach and drinks until there’s nothing left and he feels slightly sick. Montparnasse takes the canteen back with that fucking awful grin of his. “Oh, so, by the way, we’re moving you.”

“What?” Something doesn’t feel right. Something is off.

Montparnasse wipes a droplet of water from Courfeyrac’s lip with a leather-gloved thumb. “Because I’m fairly sure at least one of your friends has been here before – Feuilly, is it? Yeah. That guy.” The walls are fuzzy, Courfeyrac’s vision is rippling and there’s a warm feeling in his chest. It’s strange and unwanted, but it feels right. It feels good. “And if we’re gonna be honest here I’d like to keep you until mine and Enjolras’ transaction is complete.”

His limbs are useless, and his eyelids flutter though he fights to keep them open. “You…drug me?” he manages to ask. His mouth is going slack and words are difficult to think about.

There’s that grin again, and it’s probably the drugs, but this time it’s less terrifying and more comforting. “Just close your eyes and let it work, love.”

Let it work. Okay. He can do that. He lets his eyes close.

He knows he’s still conscious, but he can’t move and he can’t open his eyes. There’s a heat within him, dull and calming. It’s actually sort of nice. Floating. Content. He feels a pair of hands take one if his, doesn’t mind, feels those hands gently rub his, thawing his fingers and restoring circulation.

“Just let it work.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jehan doesn’t cry when Grantaire comes to his room to tell him about Courfeyrac and Bahorel. He doesn’t break down. He simply nods, and quietly asks, “Does Enjolras have a plan?”

Grantaire inhales, exhales. “It’s not solid yet but the gears are working.”

Jehan nods again. “Thank you. I’d like some privacy, if you please.”

And he shuts himself in his room, leaving Grantaire alone in the hallway. A draft of cool air whispers over his neck. This place sucks. This situation sucks. Everything fucking sucks.

He doesn’t realize he’s headed up to the control room until he’s climbing the rickety stairs. By this point Grantaire has accepted his infatuation with Enjolras – the way he speaks, the way his hair curls, his body, his face, his mind, his soul – but that doesn’t mean his strange behavior when it comes to Enjolras has ceased to surprise him.

Enjolras is sitting on the bed scrutinizing hand-written lists on yellowed paper. Inventory. “You’re going to pay him off?” he asks, standing in the doorway.

He doesn’t look up. “That’s what I’d like it to look like, yes.” He takes the paper in front of him and moves it to the back of a small stack. “But if things go south I’d prefer not to part with anything we can’t live without.”

“So…you’re _not_ going to pay him off.”

Enjolras finally looks up at Grantaire, who expects to be scolded, but instead sees something in Enjolras’ eyes he hasn’t seen before. He can’t place exactly what it is. It’s anger, but not at him, it’s fire, it’s a pounding heartbeat, it’s sexual and it’s bloodlust and it’s both terrifying and incredibly arousing.

“Enjolras—“

He’s up and off the bed in an instant, crashing into Grantaire, kissing him as if he’s a man condemned to die in the morning. His hands grip Grantaire’s shirt and pull him close, their hips pressing together and moving, grinding, creating heat and friction. Grantaire gasps, Enjolras takes the opportunity to catch his lower lip in his teeth and bite.

Enjolras kisses down his chin, across his jawline, stopping only at his ear to murmur roughly, “Take me away from this.” Grantaire is all too happy to oblige.

He tugs at Enjolras’ shirt, pulls it off of him and admires the way his hair bounces back down onto his neck. He makes short work of his own shirt, and then fumbles with his boot, his leg in the air, hopping on one foot as he attempts to pull the damned thing off. Enjolras stifles a grin. “Leave it.” He does.

They crash together again, arms and hands and lips and tongues.

Right before they cross the threshold, Enjolras on his back on the bed and Grantaire over him, Enjolras runs a hand over the tattoos on Grantaire’s neck and chest that intertwine with the scars from the maneater. He stares at them fondly, lost for a few moments in the beauty of Jehan’s needle, the black vines and flowers and maneater claws that snake their way over his skin.

His eyes move upwards and catch Grantaire’s. There is pressure, pain, and then the euphoria of Grantaire inside him, all of him. One of them cries out. They rock together, sweat beading on skin, breath hot between them.

Enjolras pulls Grantaire in closer, kisses his collarbone. “Don’t let me go.”

He doesn’t.


	11. Chapter 11

The night before the exchange, Grantaire eavesdrops.

He doesn’t really mean to do it but it just sort of happens and he goes with it. There are voices in the kitchen, he lightens his step, stops just outside the open doorway and leans his back against the wall.

“…the potential to go horrifically wrong. You realize this.”

“Of course I do, but I don’t have a choice. It’s Courfeyrac. He’d do the same for either of us without a second thought.”

Combeferre and Enjolras. Theirs is an intimate friendship, one Grantaire doesn’t even pretend to remotely understand. They’re everything two people could possibly be for each other apart from lovers. Combeferre makes Grantaire feel inadequate in so many ways, but at least there’s one area in which he has the other man beat.

“I can’t shake the feeling that you’ve been thinking about this the wrong way,” Combeferre says. “This isn’t a kidnapping and ransom, it’s a direct attack and you are the target.” There’s a pause. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, Enjolras. Montparnasse knows you, and me, and Courfeyrac. Bahorel’s murder was deliberate, to single out Courfeyrac, and when you show up tomorrow to make the exchange for him Montparnasse will kill you.”

“You think he’d go through so much trouble?”

“You shot him in the eye--”

“Because he had a gun on you!”

“I’m not saying you’re in the wrong here, I’m obviously thankful, but I don’t think he sees it the same way.”

“He doesn’t see very much at all, Combeferre.”

Grantaire has to stifle a laugh, but he can hear in Combeferre’s voice that he’s not amused. “I’m asking you to think before you go rushing into this, for all our sakes.”

There is a softness in Enjolras’ voice then, and a hint of fear; it’s something Grantaire has only heard a couple of times, and it’s strange. Unnatural. “I can’t leave him, Combeferre.” Another pause, excruciatingly long. “If I knew—if they were going to kill him, I could let it alone. But they’re not. I’ve seen what he does to people and that’s not—it isn’t—not to Courfeyrac. I’d put a bullet in him myself before I’d let them—before they—”

He’s breathing quick, sharp breaths, hyperventilating. Grantaire can’t stand by any longer. He turns the corner and walks through the doorway.

But Combeferre already has Enjolras in his arms, letting the other man bury his head in his shoulder and try to keep his sobbing at bay. Combeferre’s eyes meet Grantaire’s and, almost imperceptibly so, he shakes his head just once.

Grantaire gets it. Quietly, he steps back, out through the doorway, and makes his way back up towards the control room. He’ll be there when Enjolras returns.

 

* * *

 

 

For as long as they both could remember they were inseparable - brothers by circumstance and not by blood. They were born several months apart from each other on the same settlement, a bombed-out suburb of crumbling old houses dotted with piles of brick and rubble. One dark-haired and tall, the other skinny and blonde.

They grow up together, play in the dirt and the brittle grassy fields outside their houses. They learn how to shoot, pick off rodents and crows in the grass. They survive the sickness that kills their mothers and then live alone, just the two boys in one big house. They grow older, grow into young men.

They share their food, their clothing, their bed. They share each other. It isn’t love, not really. It’s desire, necessity, companionship, lust and hunger, but not love.

One night they lay together on their backs, dotted with sweat and breathing hard, the evidence of their intimacy still on their skin. “Will it always be like this, do you think?” one asks the other.

“Like what?”

“Like you and me. Just us. This.”

A hesitation, a breath. “If that’s what you want.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

The next year all they do is fight and fuck. The settlement has changed, no longer a place where several families raise their children but now a gathering ground for raiders and thieves. One is a natural leader of these types, knows how to command and intimidate, how to get what he wants and make people listen to him. The other keeps his distance from them, and plans to get away from all this.

One catches the other leaving one night, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, pistol in his belt, trench coat and a knit hat pulled over his golden hair.

“You can’t.”

“I have to.”

“You’ll die out there alone. You won’t survive a week.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

He grabs his wrist, one last attempt to get him to stay. “Stay. Please. Don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry.”

He turns, and Montparnasse watches as Enjolras disappears into the dark.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras returns to his room sometime later. Grantaire sits on the end of the tiny bed, a nearly-ruined book his in hands, a pair of old reading glasses dropped down low on his nose. Enjolras grabs Grantaire before he can speak and presses his lips to his, tastes his lips and his tongue, runs his hands through Grantaire’s hair and under his shirt and down his arms. He gets his leg between Grantaire’s and presses his thigh upwards, and Grantaire groans. He tips his head back, and Enjolras bites into the skin of his neck.

The reading glasses fall off Grantaire’s face and clatter to the floor. He twists his fingers through blonde curls as Enjolras sucks bruises into his neck. “You’re eager tonight,” he muses.

Enjolras kisses up Grantaire’s neck and across his jawline, his lips pricked by the stubble there. He doesn’t respond.

Instead he lets his hands wander downwards and under the hem of Grantaire’s t-shirt as he resumes his oral assault on the man’s neck. A hand wanders over his stomach, around his waist, up his back and down again just below the waist of his jeans.

Grantaire can do nothing but lie back, achingly hard, and run his hands through Enjolras’ hair.

“Courfeyrac told me, when you came back with Jehan--” With one hand, Enjolras unzips Grantaire’s jeans and begins to stroke him through his boxers, placing kisses over the scars on his collarbone as he speaks. “He said you cleared a path for them to get out.”

Grantaire once again tips his head back, closes his eyes, only half listening to Enjolras. His lips on his skin, his hand on his cock, nothing else in the world but the sensation of the man touching him, impossibly soft, angelic and dangerous and beautiful and terrible.

“He said you were ruthless.” Enjolras lifts his head, places a hand behind Grantaire’s neck and pulls his head upward to face him. “He said he’d never seen anyone kill like you did.”

They stare at each other for several moments, Enjolras’ hand still on his cock, and Grantaire doesn’t know what to say.

But he doesn’t have to say anything. Enjolras runs a thumb down Grantaire’s cheek. “I need you to be ruthless again tomorrow,” he says quietly. “I need you to be brutal.”

He continues his stroking then, and Grantaire closes his eyes. Lips wet, breathing heavily, he inhales deeply. “I can manage that,” he says, breathless.

“Good.”

He gets on his knees, takes Grantaire into his mouth, and devours him.

 

* * *

 

Dawn comes too quickly. They wake tangled together, an arm asleep, a neck stiff. They dress in silence.

Grantaire pulls the duffel bag containing all his worldly possessions out of one of the lockers and rifles through it until he finds what he seeks.

He holds it up to Enjolras. “Here.” He shakes it slightly. “Wear it.”

The vest is old, woven Kevlar with metal inserts, rare and expensive. Most of them had been claimed by the Collective or lost in the Event. Enjolras regards it with an eyebrow raised, and Grantaire explains, “My dad left it to me.” Enjolras takes the vest, and Grantaire continues, “Well, he left it to me in that it was on his corpse and he didn’t need it anymore. These things don’t protect your head, see.”

Enjolras doesn’t know if he should smile. Grantaire helps him with the straps, and he pulls a jacket over the whole ensemble.

“What about you?” Enjolras asks after he’s all suited up.

“I’ve been shot before and I’ll probably be shot again. But you, you’re such a frail little thing, Enjolras, I fear one bullet will be the end of you.”

Again, Enjolras doesn’t know if he should smile. But he does, and Grantaire does too. Enjolras puts his hands on the sides of Grantaire’s face and kisses him, slowly, purposefully, lingering at his lips once they part.

“Let’s kill these sons of bitches up and get our friend back.”


	12. Chapter 12

The day of the exchange, the snow stops.

They leave at sunrise, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Grantaire. Feuilly had left hours prior with his rifle and best scope. It was a bit of a gamble, but the man had insisted, for “extra insurance”. Enjolras doesn’t forbid it.

The three men trudge through the snow, layered clothing borrowed from those who stayed behind. The case of weapons, ammunition and cash is dragged behind them on a makeshift sled. The rope is thick in Grantaire’s hands, the case heavy, and the journey downright awful.

They reach the agreed place with time to spare.

“I don’t like this.”

Combeferre stands next to Enjoras, both looking towards the ridge where they expect Montparnasse and his crew will come from. Grantaire sits down on the case of weapons, brushing snow off of his pants.

Enjolras, ever steeled, doesn’t break his focus. “Neither do I. We don’t have a choice.”

After that is silence, but for the wind blowing across the empty expanse of the snow-wastes. Grantaire knows Combeferre would be much less on edge if they could see Feuilly, but he’s up in the drifts on the ridge, no doubt tense as the rest of them.

They arrive nearly an hour later, Montparnasse and two of his crew, Courfeyrac trailing behind them. Enjolras straightens, his hand twitching for the pistol on his hip, but he doesn’t draw it.

“You’re late.”

Montparnasse smirks that terrible smirk. “What can I say? You know I like to keep you on your toes.”

Courfeyrac sways where he stands, dark circles under his eyes, a split lip and a bruised jaw, shivering in the cold without proper gear. Grantaire finds himself gritting his teeth. He stands, trying to look as imposing as he possibly can.

Montparnasse glances back at Grantaire. “This one’s new.”

Enjolras brushes his comment aside. “We have what you asked for. Let’s just get this done and over with.”

“Not so fast, _ma bichette_.” Montparnasse reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small pair of binoculars. He hands them off to Enjolras. “You broke the rules. I said three. You brought four.”

Enjolras gives him a wary look, taking the binoculars slowly. “What are you talking about?”

“You know.”

He does know. Enjolras peers through the binoculars up into the ridge. He spots Feuilly, on his knees in the show, his hands on his head. One of Montparnasse’s crew, the blond one, stands behind him, assault rifle in his arms. Enjolras lowers the binoculars and hands them back to Montparnasse.

“Fine. I broke the rules. You sniped one of my men, murdered him. Can you blame me for acting likewise?”

Montparnasse doesn’t answer. He puts a hand up and motions behind him, not looking back, and Courfeyrac is pushed forward. “Do you have any idea why?”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “I don’t understand.”

“Why I would kill one of you and keep the other one to hold for an exchange. Why I would get you out away from your base, out in the open, with weapons and supplies and gear. Use your brain.”

Grantaire narrows his eyes and pulls the ransom forward. “Listen, asshole, we have your payment. Give us back our man and let’s be done with this.”

Montparnasse doesn’t even look over to Grantaire. He stares at Enjolras, unflinching, and pushes Courfeyrac forward. “I’m doing you a huge favor here, Enjolras. I’d appreciate you keeping your dog muzzled.”

Grantaire takes a step forward but Enjolras holds out his arm to stop him, turning his head slightly. He then looks back to Montparnasse. “Explain.”

“The Collective. Your little stunt breaking out the skinny kid sure as hell caught their attention. You didn’t think you were the only one with a man on the inside, did you?”

There is a sudden deafening noise behind them. Grantaire grabs Courfeyrac’s arm to pull him close before looking to the source of the sound. A column of smoke slowly rises from behind the hills in the direction of the power plant, gunfire sounding in the distance.

Courfeyrac’s knees give out under him, and Grantaire does his best to hold him up. When he turns back to Enjolras, his pistol is drawn, as are the guns of Montparnasse’s crew.

“What the _fuck_ did you do?!” Enjolras screams, a terrible fire practically burning from his eyes. Grantaire sees Combeferre’s expression turn from shock to worry. Something tells him this is the first time Enjolras has ever even spoken this loudly.

“I saved your fucking life, you dick. Put the goddamn gun down. I intended on getting you back for shooting me in the fucking eye, but I caught word the Collective was planning to obliterate you. And because I am so generous and kind, and because you and I have a history, and because I care so fucking much about your pretty little head, I decided to do you a favor.”

Combeferre puts his hand on Enjolras’ arm and pushes gently, lowering the gun. “The others, Enjolras. We have to go back for them.”

“It’s too late.” All eyes are on Montparnasse again. “If they’re not dead now, they will be soon. Let’s go.”

“Where?” Grantaire demands, dropping a now-unconscious Courfeyrac into the snow, the weight of him too much for Grantaire to handle any longer.

Montparnasse flashes him a smile. “Safety, _petit chien_. Keep your goddamn mouth shut and let’s go.”

They have no choice. Enjolras holsters his pistol, grits his teeth, and follows Montparnasse back towards the ridge. Combeferre hesitates, looking back towards the growing column of black smoke rising into the sky, but pulls Courfeyrac from the snow and wraps the man’s arms around his neck, dragging him behind him. Grantaire stands for a few more moments before picking up the thick rope attached to the crate of weapons and ammunition and cash, and reluctantly follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for such a short chapter and such a long time since the last update! School is draining me of all life and ambition to write. Hopefully this little bit will kick-start some more chapters very soon!


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